


Drugged Watson Wednesday and What Ensues

by ThatWeirdFangirl



Series: No Sherlock, You Can't Drug People [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Eventual Smut, Fluff, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Loves Sweets, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Pining John, Sherlock Acting Strange, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Drugging People, Sherlock Loves John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWeirdFangirl/pseuds/ThatWeirdFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to run an experiment for a case using his roommate, only to drug both his roommate, who is in love with him, and his brother, who is pining for a certain Detective Inspector. Now, he has to clean up his mess and John refuses to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cake is a Lie

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Johnlock portion of the series. I would recommend reading the first part because, otherwise, some of the scene transitions might not make sense. This story, however, should stand by itself. If it doesn't, tell me and I will do my best to correct it.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated and any mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading. :)

Sherlock found that he was in quite a predicament when John broke down crying on the couch. His latest experiment had worked and had provided an explanation and a motive for several murders in a warehouse in downtown London, however, John was crying. 

He sighed and thought of what had led to this situation. 

***

He and John had been working a case for three days and Sherlock was so close to solving it. He had even gone as far as to recreate the drug that had been administered to the victims, all high-ranking government officials, before their deaths (they had all been shot, so Sherlock believed the drug was used to extricate government information and was not lethal.) 

He just had to test it to see if the drug worked as a hallucinogenic truth serum. And, spotting his roommate reading the morning paper, he decided upon a guinea pig.

The drug could not be dissolved in liquids, so he couldn't put it in John's tea. John made all of the food, so he couldn’t slip it to him in that matter either. And of course, Sherlock could not tell John, for John might believe he was hallucinating, even if the drug did not work, in a strange placebo effect. 

John, over the course of the past few months, had started bringing home sweets, even though Sherlock was strongly opposed to them because sugar interfered with his thought processes, and Sherlock decided to make a cake, under the pretense that Lestrade’s birthday would be soon (it was a few weeks away from that particular Wednesday.) and he wanted to show his appreciation by making something decent for the very forgiving DI.

Sherlock had started scrambling around the kitchen for pans and, when questioned, he was deemed truthful. Finally, after seven hours, three bags of flour, and several cartons of milk, a vanilla cake, lightly dusted with the experimental drug, was cooling on the “For Food only, Sherlock. I’m serious. I’ll leave if there are any body parts or growing diseases on this side.” side of the refrigerator.

Just as he sat on the couch to wait for John to clean his mess, he received a text from Lestrade to go to the Yard to give a statement. He yelled to John that he was leaving and rushed out of the flat to hail a cab, only barely glancing at the black car that pulled up to the curb behind the taxi.

***

John had returned from the surgery to find the mess of Sherlock’s escapades under way and decided to hide in his room until Sherlock had finished. When he first saw the mess, he had thought of two reasons to explain it: One, Sherlock was on drugs again or two, John’s feelings had finally penetrated his dense skull and Sherlock was finally returning his semi-romantic gestures of bringing home chocolates and severed fingers. No, he was making a cake for Greg in a likely attempt to get Anderson and Donovan fired, the fifth attempt that month, and wanted John to taste the recipe before gifting it to Greg. 

The nerve of that detective! John understood his intentions, but Sherlock didn’t even notice his attempts to gain his attention in a romantic way. Gosh, he had been in love with the man for four years, ever since he shot that cabby, maybe even before that, and he was sick of not getting any attention. In addition, he was jealous that his one best friend who was a sociopath was giving special attention to his one best friend who was not a sociopath. 

On top of everything, he realized the detective had left him to clean the kitchen when he heard the door slam as Sherlock ran out of the flat, to see Greg, no doubt.

He started cleaning the mess and, as he finished and walked into the living room, he found the elder Holmes brother on the couch, his fingers steepled under his chin, in a pose vaguely similar to that of his brother. John jumped, not expecting the man, and was reminded of his times in the army. He sank into his chair and took a few calming breaths as he waited for his PTSD attack to subside.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft? Your brother is at the Yard.” John grumbled as the elder Holmes stood. 

“I wished to talk to you about a few matters. I understand that you and Mr. Lestrade are close acquaintances.” He said cooly. If John hadn’t know this man for several years and hadn’t dealt with Sherlock, he wouldn’t have detected the slight nervousness in the man’s voice. 

“Yeah, but let me make you some tea first. I have a cake in here too. And don’t you dare say no. A piece of cake is good, once in a while. Sherlock has noticed you’ve dropped a few pounds, even though he won’t tell you, and you should reward yourself.” John set the kettle on the stove and cut two slices of the cake. 

When the tea was done, he gave the plate and mug to Mycroft, who was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and sat across from him. 

“So, what is bothering you, Mycroft?” John said after he took a bite of the cake. It was delicious; it was spongy and bursting with flavor, although it had a bitter aftertaste. John figured it was the sugar; Sherlock had probably used an herb in place of sugar or something.

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft had finished the slice of cake already and was sipping his tea. “I was wondering if you could tell me a few things on Mr. Lestrade, if it isn’t too much trouble. We’ve been out for drinks a few times, but I still don’t know much about him.”

“What do you want to know?” John eyed the man. Mycroft’s cool attitude was thrown by the slight blush on his cheeks. John smiled to himself. 

Mycroft paused for a moment, to collect his thoughts. “Well, what is his opinion on gay men?”

John wanted to laugh, but he simply smiled, “I would hope he likes them, since I’m his best friend and I’m in love with a man. As for relationships, I believe he is bi. He talked about some stories from his college days and there were a lot more men than women in the picture. Now, I have a question for you. Are you in love with him?”

Mycroft’s face flushed crimson and he scrambled to his feet. He was clearly shaken. “I-I believe I am, ever since he saved Sherlock. And I see why my brother keeps you. You are rather observant when it comes to emotions.”

“Because you Holmes brothers are denser than neutron stars.” John replied as he sipped his tea. “And Greg is single, last time I heard. He hasn’t been on any dates because work has been controlling him. You should just tell him how you feel and see how it goes from there. If it doesn’t go well, we can get Sherlock to make another cake…”

Mycroft’s eyes widened and his mug clattered to the ground, fortunately not breaking. “Sherlock...made...the...cake. Did he put a poison in it or something? The last time he made a cake, our teacher was put into a medical-induced coma and Sherlock was forced to be schooled at home. Sherlock does not cook on whims; he cooks when he wants to be sneaky about something. I need to leave...” Mycroft took his coat and his umbrella from the coat rack. “If we live, Mr. Watson, I will report any advances or setbacks with Gregory. Thank you for the information and I hope my brother does not kill you.”

Mycroft promptly left, passing his brother on the way out of the flat.

***

Sherlock appeared at the door and sat on the couch. John gathered the plates and the dropped mug and put them in the sink. As he was washing the dishes, he suddenly became light-headed and his heart was pounding. 

"Sherlock, I..." He felt his knees go and expected to hit the floor. Two strong arms, however, caught him and proceeded to carry him to the couch. He felt as if a hundred hands were on him at once, checking his pulse, his eyes, his skin.

"Dilated pupils, increased heart rate, slight fever. Tell me, John; are you experiencing any hallucinations?" Sherlock leaned over the man and John suddenly grasped the man's hands.

John's breathing had become labored and blackness started invading his vision. He felt as if claws were pulling him from Sherlock. After fighting the darkness, he was finally forced to relent as his body was instantly drained of its energy.

Sherlock stood over his unconscious friend. He hadn't expected these results. From the looks of the remaining cake, John had eaten a large piece of it, so why was he not hallucinating? He had simply passed out. With a small dose, he expected that result, but not with the rather large piece that John had consumed. 

Then he saw the two plates in the sink. Had he shared the cake with anyone? Who...  
Then it hit him. Mycroft had rushed from the flat upon his arrival. And there were minute traces of cake crumbs on his waistcoat. Knowing how Mycroft adored sweets, there was a strong likelihood that he had eaten a large piece and might be experiencing hallucinations.

John was having night terrors by the time Sherlock reached his conclusion. He was yelling something and, when Sherlock investigated, realized it was his name.

He gently shook the man and John woke with a start, punching Sherlock in the gut as a reflex. Still, Sherlock ignored the pain and embraced the soldier, who promptly broke down crying on the couch. 

"What did you see, John?" Sherlock whispered after a while. He tightened his embrace around the man. 

"You. I saw you, in the morgue. I-I thought I had lost you." John whimpered. "My greatest fear is losing you and it seemed so real and I could do nothing. I love you so much." 

Sherlock was a bit stunned and focused on the experiment instead, filing the thoughts and conversation for later.

John was sobbing and finally quieted enough that Sherlock thought he was asleep. He moved to grab his laptop, but he felt a tug on his wrist. John was looking at him, the thin line of blue seeming to glow at the redness surrounding it. His pupils were huge.

Sherlock simply smiled and took John's laptop instead. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I just need to make sure my brother hasn't started a world war." He sat on the couch again, John curling against him and pulling a blanket over the two of them. Within minutes, he was asleep and breathing peacefully.

It was strange at first, but Sherlock had to admit, the feeling of John's head on his shoulder was rather nice.


	2. Hedgehogs and Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays matchmaker and then tries to make sense of his own relationship with John. Are they just friends or is there something more?

Sherlock had opened the laptop as he started typing a text on his phone. 

Where are you? - SH

You're not my keeper. - MH

You sound like a rebellious teenager. How much cake did you eat? - SH

What did you put in it? I'm rather dizzy now. I am NEVER eating at Baker St. Ever! - MH

You're texting. Why can't you speak? What are the side effects? I need to know for a case. - SH

Glad to see you care so much for my well-being. If you must know, dizziness, fatigue, and extreme nausea. Now, gtg. I'm at Greg's. I'm going to ask him to dinner, if I can manage to speak without vomiting. - MH

What does "gtg" mean? Nevermind. I'll warn Gavin. - SH

Sherlock sighed as he opened a program on the laptop. For Christmas, John had gotten tracking devices for the two brothers, in order to have minimal police involvement in the event that one or both of them were kidnapped. It did happen from time to time, but Mycroft mainly used it to make sure that Sherlock was nowhere near any suspected drug dens. Sherlock's tracking device was implanted in one of his molars, so he could not remove it, and Mycroft's was in the umbrella that was always attached to his hip.

Now, as Sherlock looked at the screen, he marked that Mycroft was standing just outside of Lestrade's flat. He typed a text quickly.

Tell me if you hear from my brother in the next few hours. May or may not have drugged him and John. Don't ask. - SH

Now the DI would be looking for Mycroft. Sherlock was running a little side experiment as well. He knew Mycroft's affections for the man, but did Lestrade feel the same attraction? Sherlock knew that humans, when experiencing affection, want to care for the other person if he is in a weakened state. 

So, if Lestrade texted him, he would expect Sherlock to retrieve his brother, meaning he did not harbor any feelings towards the man. If he did not respond, however, Lestrade would most likely care for his brother until Mycroft was no longer drugged and that meant the DI harbored some sort of attraction towards the man, even if it were on a subconscious level. 

Mycroft had entered the flat whilst he had been thinking and, thinking of the night terror that John had experienced, he texted Gavin again. It was clear the man wasn't going to text him and Mycroft, being the usual empty shell of emotions, was probably being stoic as a storm raged inside his head. 

Comfort him. -SH

Sherlock sighed and closed the laptop and set it aside, looking at the sleeping man on his shoulder. He returned to the words John had said earlier. 

John had said that he loved him. Sherlock was a bit puzzled by the term. Love, to him, meant that he would totally devote himself to save the person of his affections, that he would do anything to make that person happy, that he trusted that person with his life.

Was John's definition similar? Or was it inherently sexual? He knew John trusted him; he had time and again. So, maybe their definitions were slightly different, but Sherlock, on his own terms, loved John. And he wasn't opposed to a sexual relationship with the man, rather, he was not familiar with the pairing of love and sex. 

Sex was lust to him, a primal urge to experience physical pleasure to escape, as a distraction. He had made sure that he never loved any of his previous partners. Strings can get so tangled with emotions. He was, however, willing to cross that line with John, as long as John was happy. 

Or maybe Sherlock was overthinking things. What if John's love was merely friendship? There was so much uncertainty in emotions. Now he saw why his brother had trained him to suppress them. At that time, both of them were failing miserably with their training.

Any way, he sighed and swung his legs onto the couch. He pulled the sleeping man onto his chest and pulled a blanket over the two of them. He wrapped his arms around the man. 

"I love you too, John." He whispered as he ran a comforting hand through John's hair. "Sweet dreams."

He then allowed himself to drift into a dreamless oblivion. 

***  
John awoke in an unfamiliar place. Sunlight was in his eyes and his mind was foggy. He sighed, relaxed as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He was warm, wherever he was. He snuggled the surface below him, only to realize that it was moving and breathing. 

His eyes snapped shut . He was cuddling someone. Who could he be cuddling? He slowly opened his eyes again, shifting his head slightly, only to see an aubergine shirt and the face of none other than the World's Only Consulting Detective.

He was cuddling Sherlock Holmes. No, he was being cuddled by Sherlock Holmes. What in bloody Hell happened last night? He couldn't remember any of it. 

Sherlock sighed in his sleep and pulled John closer. "Sorry John," he whispered in his ear. "I didn't have the heart to wake you to go to bed. You had a night terror." 

A shiver ran down John's spine as Sherlock's lips brushed his ear. Who had kidnapped Sherlock and replaced him with an affectionate being?

Sherlock, however, was gauging John's reactions. The man's pupils were blown wide and his breath had hitched. His face was flushed red. There was clearly a physical attraction. 

"I need to get ready for work." He stammered as he scrambled off of the couch. He blushed furiously as his knees gave out and he fell, tangled in the blanket. 

Sherlock smiled at him, actually smiled. Yes, an affectionate alien had replaced the man. First cake (he was still too sleepy to be jealous), now he was helping him to his feet and putting his hands on John's shoulders and then... petting his head as if John were a loyal puppy. 

"Uh, Sherlock, what are you doing? I'm not a dog." John said after a few awkward moments. 

"Quite right, John. You are like a hedgehog." At John's confused look, Sherlock sighed. 

"Cute and cuddly at times, but prickly when defending itself or its companions. Now, go take a shower. I'll make tea so you won't be late." 

He pushed the man towards the bathroom and started to busy himself around the kitchen, leaving John embarrassed and extremely confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Sorry if this is too short or it doesn't seem like enough action in this. I'll try to have some smut within the next few chapters. ;)


	3. Sherlock's Soliloquoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft exchange harsh words and Sherlock questions himself, after destroying the cameras scattered throughout the flat. Will John be able to save the day?

A few hours after John left, Mycroft appeared at the door of 221B. He was wearing a rumpled suit and his hair was slightly curled, having been wet the previous night.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." His voice was quiet but demanding and extremely annoyed. "I don't care what Mummy says: I will kill you, slowly and painfully, if you EVER do that again."

Suddenly, the tip of his umbrella was at Sherlock's throat. "Do you know how embarrassing it is not to be in control? To be seen in a helpless state, crying in front of the man you admire? You may enjoy losing control, escaping your mind, but as the head of the government and your brother, I cannot afford such pleasures."

"Head of the government, Mycroft? Really? I thought it was a minor position." Sherlock mocked him and swatted the umbrella away from his jugular. 

His tone then became serious. "I had planned that experiment for John only. I did not want him knowing so a placebo effect would not be present. And last time I saw you, you were avoiding sweets. And you did not alert me that you were visiting. How was I supposed to know that you would eat the cake? Tell me. Give me one possible scenario that would leave the blame on me. I've been through all of them and there isn't one." Sherlock's face was smug as Mycroft admitted defeat.

"Still, you should not drug your boyfriend if you want him to talk with you. Nor should you cuddle or be near him if you have no intention of pursuing him. It creates trust issues and mixed signals." 

Mycroft now grinned wickedly. "Yes, dear brother, I saw you and your John. You know, he is in love with you, and you can't even fathom the emotion, can you? They say I am the iceman, but it is you who cannot feel complex emotions. Oh my little sociopath, whatever are you going to do, being unable to properly reciprocate and only knowing lust and basic emotions? Will you let him go? Or will you consume him in the only way you know possible? You will never be able to love him and eventually he’ll leave, if he isn’t killed first. Oh decisions, decisions. Well, look at the time, I must take my leave now." He didn’t even glance at his watch. He was simply toying with his brother. 

Sherlock clenched his fists, taking the words like a blow to the face. "You made me what I am and you know it. Why are you doing this?"

Mycroft smiled sadly as he turned on his heel. "You ruined any chance of a relationship with Greg for me. I'm returning the favor. Have fun, dear brother. I'll be watching." Mycroft then exited the flat as Sherlock sunk to the couch. 

His anger faded, forgotten, as he started searching for the cameras he knew Mycroft had hidden. Initially, he was fine with them, yet now, since he brother was using them against him, he wanted to destroy some of the power Mycroft had over him. He found sixteen altogether, but he was sure there were more, along with microphones.

He looked into each camera, one by one, mouth curses and holding up two fingers, before putting them all in the microwave on high for five minutes. He, or rather John, would need to buy a new microwave, but the satisfaction from destroying his brother's eyes on him was completely worth the money.

He then returned to the couch, sitting with his face in his hands, thinking. Mycroft had been correct; Sherlock did not understand complex emotions. He did not understand envy, jealousy, or shame. He could barely grasp complacency or joy or love in the same understanding as other humans. What emotions he could understand or feel, they were either nonexistent, like sadness, or overflowing, like his rage for Mycroft or his trust and his adoration for John. He could copy them perfectly, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around the concepts; he couldn’t feel them as deeply as other humans did. 

In his younger days, he had been told countless times that he could not truly love anyone and he had only just realized what the emotion (probably) was last night. 

"And the sociopath becomes self-reflective." He murmured to himself. "Is this what I am? Incapable of understanding? Is this why they call me names? Why they watch me constantly? I feel no remorse, what would stop me from murdering the next person to walk past the window?"

"I could do it and none would be the wiser. I could make him or her kill others and then commit society. I am merely a wolf among the sheep, a devil in angel's guise."

"Or am I merely insane? A freak? Others see my dark potential and, out of precaution, they keep their distances. Yet John, if he gets any closer, I may consume him, want his attention only on me, want him by my side, forever. I adore him, but I would smother his spark. I love him, so what can I do? Force him to leave? Make him hate me? That would be difficult; he's as addicted as I am to our relationship. Ugh, I cannot think. I need nicotine."

Sherlock sobbed suddenly and realized his face was wet with tears. His sobs quickly became maniacal laughter. "Mycroft, if you're listening, you are the reason why I can't trust, why I built those walls. You may be my protector, but you are the cruelest tormentor of them all. You are my warden and an unrelenting one at that. You've finally broken me, brother dearest. And all over John, my John. I love him so much. But, if he leaves, I am destroyed. If he stays, I destroy him. Be forewarned and prepare my coffin."

His laughter again turned into sobs. Eventually, they subsided and Sherlock felt empty, numb. Shakily, he stood and stumbled towards the skull on the mantle, cursing as he found his cigarettes gone. 

"This is what boredom does to me," he murmured. He laughed again, strangled, as he leaned his forehead onto the mantle. He held Billy, the skull, in his left hand and looked at it’s features. 

"I think and I become bothered by what I am, a freak. Right Billy? Is that all I am? An arse who thinks he's better than everyone? I can charm, mingle, adapt, but I will never be one of them. Oh, I'm a mess. When John leaves, will you be my friend? I'll need someone to come along on cases, to make sure I eat and sleep and pay the bills. I need someone who won't leave. I need someone who I won't grow to love."

Sherlock was exhausted and craving nicotine. He applied three patches and tried to calm himself. He stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes and waited for John to get home to discuss things. The clock seemed to tick slower than usual.

***

As John came out of the surgery, he saw the trademark black car pull up to the curb. Perfect. Sherlock was acting weird and Mycroft was kidnapping him. Just perfect. He simply wanted to go to bed because he felt terrible, like he was hungover, but he couldn't recall drinking anything earlier. He pushed the thought aside and climbed into the car, expecting the attractive female assistant to blindfold him. 

Instead, he found Mycroft, sitting in the backseat, with a laptop open and headphones in his ears. 

"Hello Dr. Watson. Please, sit." John secured his seatbelt and the car started moving. "Please forgive my forwardness, but my brother is having somewhat of a meltdown. I said some harsh things and you are the only person he trusts. Before you say anything, please watch this." Mycroft shifted the laptop to face John and gave him the headphones.

The video was clear and seemed to be taken from the mantle. On the screen, Mycroft stood with his umbrella pointed at Sherlock. John listened as the conversation played and as Sherlock went to the couch. 

John went to remove the headphones but Mycroft gestured for him to keep watching as the elder Holmes skipped ahead in the video.

Curious and then heartbroken, John watched achingly as the man he loved fell apart. Words seemed to penetrate the detective and he laughed as if he were on the brink of insanity. He then fell into broken sobbing. He unconsciously clawed at his arms, his tell for when a nicotine craving hit. 

Finally, he made his way to the skull, looking for cigarettes that weren't there. He had given up at that point. There was desperation, suffering in his eyes as he looked directly at the camera, which was in the nose portion of the skull. Finally, after Sherlock's soliloquy ended, the man retired himself to the couch, most likely to wait for John. That had been hours ago, judging by the time stamp.

John was beyond upset with Mycroft. He shoved the laptop into his lap as the car stopped on Baker Street. 

"Don't you dare go near him unless he agrees, Mycroft. I am not afraid to go to Hell if I take you with me. You've hurt him beyond words and you know it. I won't help you with Greg anymore either. He doesn't deserve a terrible person like you." John warned as he climbed out of the car, slamming the door, and he ran towards his flat and an upset Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it and comments are appreciated if you liked it a lot. :)
> 
> There will be smut in the next chapter, so be looking for it. :)
> 
> As for one of the references in here, where Sherlock holds up two fingers to the camera: this is, to my knowledge, considered a major insult in Britain. If anyone wants to correct me, I can change it, but I am pretty sure it is equivalent to the middle finger in America. 
> 
> Also, if you happen to find any mistakes, please tell me and I will fix them. I am writing these chapters and publishing them on my phone, so I might miss a few things. 
> 
> Well, until the next chapter, have a great day!


	4. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> I am really sorry that I did not update this as I promised. I wrote this some time ago, but I lost it. Anyway, here you go. 
> 
> This is the end of this fic, unless you have any ideas that I can use. 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated and any mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading!

John found Sherlock on the couch, fast asleep. His eyes were puffy, raw, and he was curled into a ball and shivering. John found a blanket. He then toed off his shoes and embraced the man, pulling a blanket over the two of them. 

He heard Sherlock sigh in his sleep and the detective shifted to curl into John's chest, his long fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his jumper. His head was right over the doctor's heart. 

John was in utter heaven. Sherlock was clinging to him. His heart rate quickly increased and he knew Sherlock would hear it if he didn't calm himself.

"John," Sherlock whispered, stirred from his slumber. The man's voice was sleepy and cracked, if not weary. 

"Shhh. Go back to sleep, love. You've had a rough day, right? Just know that I'll be here." John paused as Sherlock raised his head so he could meet John's eyes. "When you wake up and when you go to sleep and when you are bored and when you need someone to love you unconditionally, I'll be here. I saw horrors in Afghanistan and I've seen violent murders; I can handle whatever you do, you know that." John pulled the detective closer. "I love you, understand? You can't make me leave and I promise I won't. I don't care if you can't return my affections; my love is unconditional. I am addicted to you and I don't plan on letting you go."

John's touch was reassuring and their hearts were beating so rapidly that they might burst. 

A gentle hand was pressed over John's heart, as if to steady its owner, who threatened to collapse at any moment. 

"John, I am a freak." He whispered, searching John's eyes for any hint of agreement. There was none.

"You are brilliant and the most amazing man I have ever met. You are unique and awe-inspiring and beautiful. You are not a freak and I will gladly hit anyone who says you are." 

John cupped the man's chin and he leaned so their faces were mere centimeters apart.

"John," Sherlock's breath caught and he pressed his lips to John's. The kiss was chaste and slow and sweet. John placed a hand over the one that Sherlock had on his heart, stroking his hand gently. 

Sherlock's breath hitched and his eyes became panicked. He tried to rise, but John caught his wrists.

"John, I am going to make you mine. I want your only thoughts to be of me, the only words on your lips my name. I want to control you. I will consume you. You can still escape." He said hurriedly as he removed his hand from John's grasp. 

"Who says I haven't been consumed yet? I was yours ever since 'Afghanistan or Iraq'." John pulled them both into a sitting position and held Sherlock's head to his chest. He carded his fingers through the man's curls, allowing the man to adjust, to calm himself. 

"Shhh. You are okay. Breathe. Focus on the bones in the body. What are the symptoms of mononucleosis?"

"Enlarged spleen, fatigue..." Sherlock's breathing eventually evened and he collapsed onto John's chest. He traced random patterns on the man's jumper, his eyes meeting John's blue ones after a long silence. 

"Can we try that again? The kiss?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. 

"Whatever you want. I'll do anything." John smiled as he cupped Sherlock's face and leaned towards the man. 

Their tongues clashed fiercely and each man was left breathless. They both struggled for dominance, but John was pinned under the detective, so he was helpless as Sherlock's lips moved to his neck and then to his ears.

John whimpered as Sherlock nipped at his left ear. "You have such a sensitive body. I would like to run a few experiments..."

John cut him off by rolling the two off of the couch and onto the floor. Sherlock landed on his back and was pinned to the floor by John's strong arms. 

"Stop trying to deduce me and start trying to seduce me." He whispered in the man's as he used one hand to unbutton the aubergine shirt. "This may be a new feeling for you, but I've been holding back for years. And I've been hard for the past twenty minutes and I just need this right now, okay? We can experiment later. Right now, I just want to feel you and know that you are mine as much as I am yours." 

With the last button gone, he ran a hand down the thin chest. Sherlock really needed to eat more, but he would address that issue later. He trailed kisses down his chest as he used his hand to brush over a hardened nipple. 

Sherlock whimpered and lifted himself so he could wrap an arm around John's neck. He fingered the collar of his jumper, and in taking the cloth on John's shoulder in his hand, delivered the man from his jumper in one swift move.

"You have to teach me how to do that." John grinned at him. "Shouldn't we move this elsewhere? A bed would be more comfortable."

"Yes, of course, up we go." And the two men scrambled to their feet, stopping only to divest themselves of the rest of their clothing and to lock the door.

They did not want to startle Mrs. Hudson


End file.
